


unhappypunks.com

by theletterelle



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: All the spankings ever, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Porn, Father-Son Roleplay, Lots of spanking, M/M, No Onscreen Sex, Paddling, Principal-Student Roleplay, Sort of eventual kind of plot, Spanking, Strapping, Video Cameras
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-01-24 21:20:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1617464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theletterelle/pseuds/theletterelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The punks that show up at our studios know what’s coming to them-- hot, bare-assed spankings over another man’s knee! These spankings are NOT SCRIPTED, NOT ACTED, and NOT ENJOYED! Just good old-fashioned punishment to help these punks straighten up and fly right!</p><p> </p><p> <i>In compliance with the Federal Labeling and Record Keeping Law (also known as 18 U.S.C. 2257), all models in these productions were 18 years of age or older at the time of production. All content is in full compliance with the requirements of 18 U.S.C. 2257 and associated regulations. Proof of age records are maintained by Peter Hale, Producer, Pack Moon Studios.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Confused Twink Gets Spanked

_Stiles doesn’t know if he likes men, women, or anyone in between, but he does know one thing-- where to come for his first spanking! This college boy is out on his own for the first time, and needs the strong guiding hand of an older man to keep him out of trouble. Stiles is antsy almost immediately, and he complains before his underwear is even off his butt! When the pants come down and the brush comes out, he starts to groan, swear, and squirm around. The leather paddle really gets him going though, and soon he’s yelling and begging Peter to stop. He should know that only spurs Peter on!_

 

The camera tracks up to the boy’s face, blurs for a second, then focuses. The boy grins nervously.

“What’s your name?” Peter asks.

“Stiles,” says the boy. 

“And how old are you?”

“I’m twenty.”

“Gay or straight?”

“Uh.” Stiles’ brown eyes flick down; his grin widens for a second. “I, uh, haven’t really committed to a side.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” The camera pulls back to show Peter in worn jeans and a soft v-neck, sitting in a chair in the middle of the room. He’s practically purring, eating Stiles up with his eyeballs. “So Stiles, why did you decide to do this?”

Stiles rubs the back of his neck with one hand. “I need money for school. Like, lab fees and stuff.” His other hand fiddles nervously with the hem of his shirt.

“You’re in college?”

“Yeah. Criminology.”

“So you’re going to catch the bad boys, huh?”

Stiles gives a short, hesitant laugh. “Yeah, pretty much.” He sucks his lower lip into his mouth and chews on it for a second, darting a glance toward the camera and away.

“Okay, well, today you get to be the bad boy.” Peter winks at the camera. Stiles doesn’t look reassured. “Come on,” says Peter, patting his thigh.

"Do you want me to take--" Stiles begins, but Peter overrides him. "Just come here. That's right, over my knee." He helps Stiles bend down, adjusts him a little. Stiles’ t-shirt falls down his back, showing a stripe of pale skin. Peter squeezes his butt, then lifts his hand and lands a loud slap over his jeans. Stiles jumps a little.

He flinches at the second and third slaps too, so Peter gives him a couple seconds, rubbing gentle circles over his lower back. "Sorry," Stiles says. “When I get nervous, I get twitchy.”

"It's okay," says Peter. He begins to spank again, not quite as hard, and Stiles is able to hold still. After a couple minutes, during which Peter ramps up the intensity, Stiles begins to mumble “Ow. Ow. Ow.” Another minute later, Peter stops. "Get up," he says.

Stiles does, looking worried. "Did I do something-- oh." Peter is unbuckling Stiles' belt, popping the button on his jeans and tugging them down his hips. "You're fine," says Peter. “Back down."

Stiles obediently lies back down over Peter's lap. He hisses as Peter's blows land on his boxers, and he starts to squirm. “Hold still,” says Peter, anchoring Stiles’ torso with his arm. 

“Yeah-- ow-- that’s probably not gonna happen-- OW, dude, that fucking hurts.” Stiles wiggles over Peter’s lap as best he can with an arm holding him down.

“I don’t even have your pants down yet.” Peter’s amused, and peeks under Stiles’ boxers ignoring Stiles’ outraged squawk. “Hmm, looks like I need to go harder.”

“Are you sure? I don’t think that’s necess--OW!” Stiles jerks as Peter drives a hand straight down onto his butt. “Okay, definitely not! Ow! Ow, dammit, ouch!”

“Problem?” Peter asks sweetly.

“You have to ask?” says Stiles. “God, dude, do you have iron hands?”

“Let’s find out. Get up, come on.” Stiles pushes himself back up to his feet and gives Peter the mother of all glares. Peter is unperturbed. "Kick off your shoes and drop your pants," he directs. Stiles opens his mouth to argue, but Peter gives him a look and he subsides. When he’s bare from the waist down, Peter guides him across his knee again.

This time the slaps echo, each one sounding like a gunshot. Peter spanks hard and steadily, impervious to Stiles’ complaining grunts, growing louder with every blow. Stiles’ ass cheeks are reddening, and it’s clear he’s trying not to struggle, but the battle isn’t going well.

Peter pauses to shake out his hand, then reaches over to a table on his right and picks up a hairbrush. He presses it to Stiles' butt, rubbing it softly back and forth. “You could just not,” Stiles begins, ending in a surprised yelp when Peter pops the brush down.

The camera zooms in on Stiles' lower half. The brush is solid and hard, and leaves bright imprints on his ass. Stiles is emitting strangled groans, hands grabbing Peter’s leg, the chair, each other. Peter spanks hard and fast, and breathes harder with the exertion.

On one particularly hard smack, Stiles’ legs shoot out behind him. "God," he says, "oh fuck, _fuck_ fuck fuck."

"More problems?" Peter keeps right on spanking.

"Same one-- fuck-- JESUS," this when Peter lands a particularly solid blow, "okay, okay, fuck, this hurts like a motherfucker."

That's the point," says Peter. He lifts the brush high and brings it down hard, and Stiles stiffens and yells. Peter does it again, and Stiles yells louder and writhes so that Peter has to wrap his arm around Stiles' waist again to keep him in position. He lets loose a flurry of smacks, so hard the sound can be heard over Stiles' outcries.

Peter stops to take a breather, while Stiles moans and wriggles as much as Peter’s grip will let him. 'Look at the camera, Stiles," Peter says.

"What?" Stiles' head is dangling down by Peter's leg, and he’s panting for air.

"Look at the camera." Peter hauls Stiles' head up by the hair and turns him to face the camera. "They want to see your face."

Stiles' face is red, either from being upside down or from his exertions or from plain embarrassment. He wraps his hands around Peter's calf to support himself and turns toward the camera as much as he can. This means that the lens sees him grimace as Peter begins to spank again, sees his teeth bare and his eyes shut tight. Stiles grunts hard with each smack.

This set only lasts another thirty seconds or so, and then Peter lays down the hairbrush and picks up a leather paddle. He gives the camera an evil grin and smooths the paddle in circles around Stiles' ass, which has gone straight past red and is now a dull brick color. Stiles has let his head fall, but when Peter slaps the paddle down across his abused cheeks, he jerks back up and shrieks.

Almost immediately he begins to squirm again, wiggling and kicking, but he can't avoid the paddle. It strikes him over and over, each time landing exactly where it has to hurt the most. "God," Stiles cries, "oh God oh fuck, that fucking hurts, please!"

"Please what?" Peter sounds entirely too self-satisfied.

"That's enough, okay, please, oh fuck dude, stop!"

Peter does stop, giving Stiles a chance to catch his breath. He rubs Stiles' ass with his free hand, massaging the sting out while Stiles whimpers below. "I'm going to give you another twenty," he says. "I want you to count them. If you miss one, we start over. If you get them all right the first time, we'll be done. Understand?"

"I hate you," says Stiles.

“I assume that means yes,” Peter says. 

“I _really_ hate you.” The first one hits, and Stiles groans. "One."

Peter is slow, making each one count. Stiles' voice gets louder with each number, his comments more blistering. “Eight, Jesus, were you not hugged enough as a child? _Nine_ , you bastard, ow ow ow! Ten!” He almost can't spit out thirteen, so Peter gives him a space to breathe and curse before starting up again, fourteen fifteen-- "Sixteen," Stiles counts, voice thick with pain, "Seventeen, eighteen-" a deep gasp- "nineteen, twenty, oh God. Oh my God. Oh my fucking God."

Peter lets him lie there to collect himself. He squeezes one cheek out of sheer perversity and grins at the flood of obscenities from Stiles. “Someone need to wash your mouth out,” he observes, patting Stiles’ backside. It’s not at all gentle, and Stiles jerks and swears again. “Maybe next time,” Peter says.

“Yeah, like I’m gonna-- ow--” Peter assists Stiles to his feet. “Gonna let you touch me again,” says Stiles. He’s facing the camera and in too much pain to notice his dick is full frontal. 

“We’ll see,” says Peter with a wicked smile. “I’ve heard that before. Now, turn and face the wall.”

Stiles grumbles but obeys, standing with his forehead touching the wall, breathing heavily. The camera follows him, and zooms in tight to Stiles' mistreated butt, dark red and bruised. It holds there, then fades to black.


	2. Basketball Dude Makes a Bet

_Scott saw the results of one of our videos and made a bet that he could take more. He laughed when he went over Peter’s knee, but he wasn’t laughing when his pants came down and the ruler came out! Lots of growling and fist-pounding going on here. Nothing like an angry young punk getting his ass beat by an older man!_

There's a fumbling sound at the mic. The audio cuts out for a second, then comes back. Peter's kicked back on a sofa, a dudebro in basketball shorts and a backwards baseball cap on the other end. "At the camera, over there," Peter points. The dudebro gives a 'sup nod and wave, then breaks into a sunny smile. "Hey, internet," he says. 

"So just tell them a little bit about yourself," Peter says.

"Uh, let's see. My name is Scott, I'm in school, um. I don't know what else to say. What do you want me to say?"

"How old are you?"

"I'm nineteen." Scott nods as if they need him to confirm it. "I'll be twenty in... two months."

"Gay, straight, or bi?"

"Straight," Scott says with an easy grin.

"Ever been spanked before?"

He giggles. "Uh, maybe yeah," scratching behind his ear, under the baseball cap, "with one of my girlfriends, yeah."

"Do you have a girlfriend now?"

"Yeah."

"What does she think about this?"

"I didn't tell her." Scott's grin turns a little shamefaced.

"Did you like getting spanked?"

"Not really?"

"Then why did you come down today?"

Scott actually shrugs. "I dunno, man. It just kind of seemed interesting. Also, I saw Stiles' ass when he got home and I totally bet I could take more than that."

That surprises a laugh out of Peter. "You know Stiles?"

"Yeah, he's my roommate."

"He told you to come here?"

Scott grins again and shakes his head. "Nah, dude, he told me _not_ to come here."

Peter can barely contain a cackle. "So that's why you're here."

“Pretty much, yeah.” 

"All right then, let's get started. How about losing the hat?" Peter scoots to the middle of the couch and takes Scott's wrist. Scott's a little confused at first, but figures it out and goes with it, head toward the ground and legs out behind him. He tosses the cap off into a corner, and dark wavy hair falls into his eyes.

Peter rubs Scott's butt for a second before popping his hand down. "Look back up at the camera," he says. Scott lifts his head, brushes back his hair and looks around. "Over there," Peter points again. He gives Scott another smack. Scott gives the camera a little wave.

Peter lets his hand fall heavily onto Scott's lifted ass a few more times before he grips the waistband of his shorts. "Let's get rid of these..." Scott lifts his hips and lets Peter tug his shorts down to reveal butt-hugging black briefs. Peter goes back to spanking. Scott grunts a little with each one.

"Hurt yet?" asks Peter.

"A little," Scott admits. "Ow, okay, that one hurt a little more."

Scott hisses and winces as Peter's hand gets heavier. He's lost the smile and looks a tiny bit concerned. "Hey, is this gonna--" he says, but Peter cuts him off. "No talking right now."

"But I--"

"No."

Scott shuts up, and Peter lays down a few more solid blows before reaching for Scott's underwear. Scott arches up, but the expression on his face is more uncertain than it was before.

"Feeling it yet?" asks Peter, brushing his hand across Scott's nude butt. It's blushing pink, and Scott's shoulders jerk involuntarily. "Yeah," comes from somewhere under Scott's hair.

"Does it feel as easy as you thought it would?" Peter reaches for the thick wooden ruler he left on the arm of the sofa.

"I'm okay," says Scott.

"Not what I asked," Peter says, and slaps the ruler down diagonally across Scott's ass. Scott's legs kick out as he yells in surprise and pain.

Peter always looks so satisfied when he's hurting people. He doesn't go easy on Scott, whose face is now screwed up tight as he grunts hard with each blow. "I asked," says Peter, emphasizing each word with a stroke of the ruler, "does it feel easy?"

"No!" Scott's yell is strangled. "No, oh dammit, fuck, fuck, no, it's not easy, okay?"

"You sound troubled, Scott," Peter says. Welts are rising on Scott's skin. "I didn't expect so much commotion from you. I thought you were sure you could take more than Stiles did."

"I can," growls Scott. "I'm taking it. That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt!"

Peter smirks and uses the ruler like he's beating a stubborn mule. Scott's legs tremble and a few times his knees collapse, leaving Peter's free hand the only thing keeping him from tumbling to the floor. Scott grunts hard through his teeth, and he glares at the floor, hands fisted against it.

Peter takes a break and wipes sweat away from his forehead. "You're pretty red back here." It's an understatement. The ruler has left welts that show darker against Scott's hot skin. "Stiles took my hand, a hairbrush, and a paddle. What do you think you can take that would beat that?"

"Dude," Scott groans. "I don't know, man. Whatever you're using, I think that means I should win."

"I think we'll try the paddle for a little while," Peter muses. "We can always go back to the ruler if we need to."

Scott gives an incredulous laugh, but he doesn't object. He grabs Peter's leg and hisses at the first stroke of the paddle, but after a few more he's growling again, tossing his head up and down and pounding a fist on the floor. Peter keeps a hand firmly on Scott's shoulder and uses the other to crack the paddle down without mercy. Scott howls.

Peter keeps it up before relenting to let Scott have a short break. Scott's breath is rasping in his lungs. "I finished off Stiles with twenty swats. How many do you think you can take?"

"Twenty-one," Scott gasps.

Peter laughs out loud. "I don't think one swat counts as beating him. Let's say thirty. Straighten out your legs."

Scott groans in protest but obeys. "Count," Peter instructs him, and slaps the paddle down hard.

"One," Scott forces out. "Two. Three. Four." When they make it to fifteen, Peter says "I think you need to ask for the second half."

"What?" It's not clear whether Scott didn't hear or just didn't believe what he heard, so Peter says it again. Scott looks down at the floor, breathing hard, and mutters something too low for the mic to pick up.

"I think you need to speak up. He didn't hear you." Peter points the paddle toward the cameraman.

Scott gives a shuddering sigh. "Can I have the second half?"

"How many?"

Scott lets out a throaty whine. "Fif-- fifteen?"

"So ask for that." Peter taps the paddle on Scott's thigh.

"Can I have another fifteen?"

Peter lets the paddle answer. Scott bites down on his fist and snarls out the numbers. " _Fuck_ ," he says when they hit twenty-five, "that's enough, I win, that's all."

"Five more," says Peter inflexibly. He slams the paddle hard against Scott's fiery skin, pulling a shout of pain from him. "Twenty-SIX, okay, okay, okay, twenty-seven, twenty-EIGHT, TWENTY-NINE, THIRTY."

Peter gives a breathless laugh and drops the paddle on the sofa beside him. Scott's limp and groaning over his knees. There's a snort from behind the camera, and the shot jerks as it's picked up and walked over to where Scott lies panting for air. The shot blurs, then refocuses on Scott's backside, dark and welted and painful. "I think you won," says a voice, and there's a wheezing giggle from down below.


	3. Vines

“Holy fuckballs, idiot, what did you _do_?”

“Made two hundred bucks.” Stiles’ voice is smug

“You look like you fell five stories onto your ass.”

Stiles laughs. “I feel like it, dude.” He looks over his shoulder. “Oh fuck you, you are NOT Vining this.” He makes a grab for the phone. Everything goes fast and blurry.

“Too late!”

There’s a jump.

“Holy fuckballs, idiot, what did you _do_?”

“Made two hundred bucks.”

“You look like you fell five stories onto your ass.”

*

“I can’t believe you went anyway. You’re such a fucking idiot.”

“I got thirty. Bet you couldn’t take that.”

“I wouldn’t _want_ to take that. Because I’m not an idiot.”

“Bullshit.” Scott pulls up his pants. “Okay, we're even. No more Vines.”

“Turnabout is fair play, asshole.”

“Who says that? What are you, old?”

Jump.

“I can’t believe you did that. You’re such a fucking idiot.”

“I got thirty. Bet you couldn’t take that.”

*

There’s the flash of the Starbucks mermaid. “Here it is,” announces Stiles. “Scott, about to sit on a hard chair for the first time since.”

“What have you guys been doing?” Isaac hands Scott his double-shot latte. “I saw Stiles’ feed.”

Stiles chortles. Scott looks embarrassed, then… “Hey, why do you follow Stiles but not me?”

“You barely post, dude.” Stiles fumbles the phone. “Kira and I are the only ones who follow you.”

Scott looks at the phone in horror. “Does Kira follow you? Give me that!”

In the ensuing fight, the phone falls to the ground.

Jump.

“Here it is. Scott, about to sit on a hard chair for the first time since.”

*

“So. Yeah.” Scott turns his back and holds his phone to his ear. “I, uh, I can explain.”

Stiles snickers.

“I mean, two hundred bucks. We could go spend the weekend in San Francisco or something. I could buy you diamond earrings.” Scott listens for a moment. “Okay, yeah, or I could buy food for the next month. Either way. Are you mad?” Scott turns around to see Stiles’ eyeroll. “Goddammit Stiles, do you have to Vine everything?” He lunges. The camera runs away.

Jump.


	4. Cocky Boy Meets His Match

_Jackson has the body of a god-- and boy, does he know it! This cocky young man thinks he can handle anything Peter can dish out, but when the rubber meets the road, he’s shaking, crying, and begging Peter to stop. He ends up a humbled boy, asking dad to spank him over his knee. The bigger they are… the bigger they are!_

 

The audio comes up before the picture does. “...rematch,” says a voice. There’s a burst of laughter. “Seriously!” the voice protests, and the video appears, and it’s Stiles with a huge grin on his face. “I can totally deal. You just took me by surprise before.”

“Surprise. Yes,” says Peter. “Amazing how I made you come down here, ask for a spanking, strip your clothes off and put yourself over my knee without you noticing.” His foot is in the shot, and part of a leg.

Stiles leans back against the sofa. “Whatever, man. It’s on.”

“Nothing’s on until you introduce your friend.” The camera pulls back to show a blond Adonis with icy blue eyes and lips pressed tightly together.

Stiles ellbows him. “Say hi, Jackson.” Jackson side-eyes the camera, but nods. “Aw, not going to talk today? Tell ‘em why you came.” When Jackson just looks away, Stiles smirks. “Mommy and Daddy took the T-bird away. No more allowance, and those highlights won’t pay for themselves.”

“Fuck off, Stilinski.” It gets Jackson talking, at least. Stiles reaches up to poke him in the neck and Jackson swats his hand away with more force than is necessary.

“Okay, boys. Fun is fun, but I think it’s time for Stiles to leave.” Peter stands up.

“Aw man!” Stiles pouts. “I don’t get to watch the fun?”

“You can watch the fun on the internet with the rest of the world.” Peter shoos him out.

“What a rip,” Stiles grumbles, but he goes. Jackson looks at Peter, his jaw tight.

“Stand up,” directs Peter. Jackson does, hands loose at his sides. Peter takes a step back and considers him. “Take off your shirt.”

Jackson lifts the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it off over his head, revealing a truly stupendous set of abs and pecs. 

“Well.” Even Peter is impressed. “This is not what I’d expect a friend of Stiles to look like.”

“We aren’t friends,” bites out Jackson.

Peter nods. “That makes much more sense.” He twirls a finger, and Jackson turns so his back is to the camera. “I can’t wait to see the rest of the package,” Peter murmurs. The room fades out.

*

When they fade back in, Jackson is facing a full-length mirror, legs spread and hands clasped behind his head. Peter is arranging implements on a side table. He picks up a leather strap and cracks it against his thigh. Jackson’s shoulders flinch, but he stays rigid. Peter gives the camera a tiny smirk and does it again.

“Over here,” Peter says. Jackson drops his hands and comes to Peter’s side. “Today I’m going to try something a little different. Why don’t you put your hands here on the arm of the sofa-- no, a little bit more-- there, like that.” Jackson is partially bent over, his hands on the sofa arm and his body angled so the camera can see his face in the mirror. His jaw is clenched tight. “Keep looking in the mirror,” says Peter. “It shouldn’t be hard.”

Peter begins with his hand, like he does with every new boy that comes in. It doesn’t make much of an impression on Jackson, who stares straight ahead into the distance. There’s the obligatory warmup period, then Peter picks up the strap and holds it up where Jackson can see it in the mirror. Jackson doesn’t acknowledge it. Peter gives a half-smile, then whacks it across the seat of Jackson’s khakis.

Jackson jumps. It’s the first sign since they started that he’s paying attention. Peter does it again, and again, creating a rhythm that he then deliberately disrupts once Jackson has relaxed into it. Jackson’s jaw clenches and he glares. Peter gives him a hard crack with the strap, and Jackson almost speaks, then shakes his head.

“Time to lose the pants,” says Peter. 

Jackson stands up immediately and unzips, dropping his khakis around his ankles and bending back over the sofa arm. He’s wearing only a pair of dark blue 2(x)ist trunks, and they follow the curves of his ass to perfection. 

The strap has more of an impact without the pants. Jackson jerks minutely with each blow, and his teeth worry at his lower lip. When Peter picks up the pace, Jackson’s breath comes faster. His eyes stare into the mirror, where the camera can capture every expression.

Peter, for all his lascivious behavior, is a professional. He works Jackson up to where he’s breathing heavily, nostrils flaring, then drops it back, then ramps it up again. It’s several minutes before he stops. Jackson’s head has dropped low, but he’s still in position, legs spread and ass thrust out toward the camera. 

Peter doesn’t bother to give the order; he tugs Jackson’s underwear down to his thighs. The boy’s ass is round and muscular, as perfect as the rest of his body. Peter rubs one red cheek, lifting an eyebrow at the growl that comes from Jackson’s throat. “If you don’t want your ass touched,” says Peter, “you ended up in the wrong studio.” He pats it, then smacks it hard with his hand. Jackson jerks, and the growl cuts off.

The hand seems to work well. Peter goes with it, staying to the side so the camera can catch both Jackson’s face and his rapidly reddening butt. “Look in the mirror,” Peter orders whenever he catches Jackson’s head bowing. “I said look. In. The. Mirror.” He picks up the strap again and cracks it hard across both cheeks. Jackson lets out a low moan. 

“There. Feel that? Keep your head up.” Peter strikes hard, leaving deep red strap marks painted across Jackson’s skin. “If you keep looking down, it’s going to be a lot worse.”

Jackson’s face is working, his eyes squinching shut at each blow, his lips skinning back from his teeth. He digs his nails into the leather of the sofa, gasping for air when he can’t hold his breath anymore. The strap drives his hips forward, one knee giving way. Peter stops. “Stand up.”

Jackson’s leg trembles, but he straightens. He’s gulping air, and in the mirror his eyes are shiny.

Peter whips the strap hard across the top of Jackson’s ass, and this time Jackson cries out. It makes him sound younger than he looks. Peter does it again, harder, and Jackson’s cry is louder. His arms bow out, and his head falls between his shoulders, but he jerks it up immediately and stares straight into the mirror before Peter can remind him of the consequences.

“I’m getting through to you now, aren’t I?” says Peter. He brings the strap down without waiting for a response, then does it again, faster and faster, until Jackson is clutching at the sofa arm and swearing like a trooper. Peter doesn’t stop. His arm is strong, and it gets plenty of use. Jackson’s swearing turns to howling. His head thrashes up and down, and his fist pounds the sofa arm, but Peter doesn’t stop.

“I can’t!” Jackson yells. Peter gives him another three solid thwacks before pausing. “You can’t what?”

Jackson makes a sound between a growl and a wail. “I can’t do any more.”

“Oh, I don’t believe that.” Peter gives him another two.

“Please!” Jackson’s breath comes in sobbing gasps. “I really can’t. Please.” His legs are shaking, and his shoulders are trembling from supporting all his weight.

“Hmmm.” Peter holds up the strap. “I don’t think I believe you, but I believe you believe it. So I’m going to let you choose. Five more with the strap, looking into the mirror the whole time-- no looking away, not even a little bit-- or fifty with my hand, bent over my knee.”

Jackson’s voice is so low the camera almost doesn’t catch it. “Fifty.”

“Fifty with what?”

“With your hand.”

Peter is inflexible. “How?”

Jackson swallows. “Bent over your knee.”

“All right.” Peter puts the strap down, takes a seat and reaches for Jackson. Jackson goes over easy, letting his head fall with a sigh of relief. Peter strokes his burning red ass for a minute before lifting his hand and bringing it down. The first set of ten is slow and hard. Jackson grunts at each one, but he sounds less desperate now.

Peter gives him the next twenty fast, leaving Jackson panting and crying out again, clutching Peter’s leg for comfort. Peter pets Jackson again, letting him calm down before telling him “Just twenty more. Count them.”

There’s a deep, shuddering sigh, and Jackson nods. “One,” he says, his voice wobbling, “two, three, four…” His hands grip Peter’s leg tight. “Thirteen, fourteen…”

Peter makes the last five really count, slamming his hand onto Jackson’s ass hard enough that the blows flush white before filling with red. There are marks that may be handprints when he’s done. “Nineteen, twenty,” counts Jackson, ending on a strangled gasp. He clings to Peter’s leg, presses his knees into Peter’s thigh. “Are we done?”

“We’re done,” says Peter. Jackson tries to straighten up, but Peter keeps him down with a hand on his lower back. “Before you go,” says Peter, “tell us what the worst part was?”

There’s a pause. “The strap,” Jackson says grudgingly.

“I’m not sure that’s true,” Peter says, and smacks a red cheek not-so-playfully.

“Ow!” Jackson jerks but doesn’t move from over Peter’s knee. There’s another pause. “The mirror,” he says. 

Peter smiles. “That’s what I thought.” He beckons the camera over, and the shot swoops up and around and centers on Jackson’s butt, the deep red a sharp contrast to the summer-tan of the rest of his body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized I should put my tumblr here. I'm [thosecombustibleheads](http://thosecombustibleheads.tumblr.com), and I like talking to people.


	5. Stiles Comes Back For Round 2

_He said he’d never let Peter touch him again, but here’s Stiles, back for more! He doesn’t want to let his friends beat him at his own game, but when Peter takes the belt off, gametime is over! Stiles goes OTK and bends over the chair for the whipping of his life, asking Uncle Peter for more like a good boy and crying when it’s over._

 

Stiles is standing in the corner, his back to the camera. “Stiles,” calls Peter, and he turns around. “Come here.”

Stiles approaches the chair where Peter’s sitting. He’s loose, relaxed, nothing like the freaked-out boy he was last time. 

“So you came back,” says Peter.

Stiles nods.

“You said last time that I was never going to get my hands on you again. Changed your mind?”

Stiles shrugs. “It didn’t seem as bad when it was over. Besides, I can take more than Scott, now that I know what’s going to happen.” He grins. 

“Is that so?” Peter’s not smiling. “Let’s see how you do.” He reaches out to pull Stiles over, and Stiles goes willingly. 

Peter hits hard, harder than before. It surprises a puff of breath out of Stiles, but before he can say anything, Peter hits him again. Ten solid swats, fast and hard, and Stiles is back on his feet before he knows it. “Jeans down,” says Peter. Stiles obeys.

The next round isn’t fast, but it’s clear that Stiles is feeling the weight of each blow. He gasps with each one, twitching when the next doesn’t fall in rhythm. Ten more, and Peter’s petting Stiles’ butt, smoothing the underwear down his cheeks and into the cleft. “How many do you think you can take?” Peter asks.

“I, uh.” Stiles ducks his head. “I don’t know. How many do you have?”

“Hah!” Peter’s bark of laughter sounds at the same time he slaps Stiles’ bare thigh. “Don’t try and play chicken with me, boy. You’ll lose.” He lays a series of slaps down then, from the edge of Stiles’ underwear down to mid-thigh. Stiles grunts but holds firm.

Peter draws Stiles’ underwear down as far as he can without making Stiles get up. Stiles’ bare ass is rapidly going towards red just from Peter’s hand, so when Peter picks up the ruler and slams it down without warning, Stiles’ screech isn’t unwarranted. He presses his knees into Peter’s thigh and grabs hold of the leg of the chair. Each blow of the ruler makes him yelp, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t try to get away. When Peter finally puts the ruler down, Stiles is painted red from his ass almost down to his knees. Peter lets him lie there and breathe for a minute, then nudges his shoulder. “Up.”

Stiles gets painfully to his feet, pants around his knees, underwear trapped at his thighs, and looks at Peter for instructions. Peter maneuvers Stiles so he’s facing the chair, his back to the camera. “Over,” he tells him. “Hands on the seat of the chair.”

Stiles bends over, pointing his flushed ass straight at the camera. He waits. Peter gives a self-satisfied little snort. “Did your dad ever take his belt to you?” he asks.

“No.”

“No? You must’ve been a good kid.”

Stiles laughs a little hysterically. “I was a _terrible_ kid.”

“Is that so?” Peter’s fiddling with his belt buckle, drawing the belt end out, pulling it back again. “I bet you did a lot of stuff he never even found out about, didn’t you?”

“I… I don’t know, actually. He knew a lot more than he let on.” Stiles shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Are you going to spank me or what?”

“Sounds like you could use a good dose of the belt,” says Peter, unbuckling for real now. He pulls the belt out, doubles it, and cracks it against his thigh. “You agree?”

“Uhhhh.” Stiles laughs again. “Sure.”

Peter cocks an eye at the camera, then brings the belt down. Hard. It leaves a dark stripe across Stiles’ ass, and Stiles literally screams. Peter does it again, catching the left cheek, and again on the right, and the right thigh, and the left thigh, and the left again, and each stroke makes Stiles shriek.

“Do you think this is a game?” Peter inquires. He cracks the belt across Stiles’ thighs again.

“What? No!” Stiles cries out at two blows that nail him in the crease between ass and thigh.

“Because the way you’re laughing at me, it sounds like you think this is a game.” The belt strikes again. “Just a fun way to pass the time and earn some quick cash. Is that what you think?”

“No! Fuck! No, I don’t think that!” Stiles’ knees are trembling. He takes a firmer hold on the chair seat.

“Don’t you?”

“Jesus Christ!”

“I’m not here to play games, Stiles. I’m here to do a job.” The belt crashes down.

“Yeah, I get it, I get it, I’m sorry.”

“My job--” _smack_ \-- “is to beat--” _smack_ \-- “your ass until I decide it’s had enough. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Yes! Oh fuck, goddamn--”

“Because if you don’t,” says Peter inflexibly, “I can pass you on to one of my friends who will explain it further. In. Great. Detail.” Each word is accompanied by a blow. Stiles’ ass looks hot to the touch.

“No! I understand, I’m sorry, it’s not-- motherfucker-- it’s not funny, I’m sorry I laughed.” Stiles is more than halfway to tears, gulping air and leaning forward as far as he can to get away.

“Prove it.” Peter lets the belt fall. “Prove you’re sorry.”

Stiles’ breath comes harshly. “How?”

“Ask for more.”

“Ohhhh fuck.” It’s somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Please don’t make me--”

There’s a sharp crack, and Stiles’ knee buckles, then straightens. “Okay. Okay. Um. Uh, please sir, can I have some more?”

Peter’s face almost gives it away, but he looks away from the camera to regain composure. “How many more?”

“Five?” says Stiles hopefully. Peter snorts. “Okay, seven?”

“Let’s go with twenty,” says Peter.

“Ten!” yelps Stiles. “Ten, please, ten is fine, ten is enough, we can do ten, okay?”

“Ten then,” Peter says. “Hang on to something.” Stiles nods, spreads his feet into a firmer stance, and cringes when he hears the belt whip through the air. There’s bruising forming along some of the welts, dark red streaks where they cross.

Peter doesn’t make him count this time, just delivers each blow soundly. Stiles isn’t quite openly sobbing when it’s over, but it’s close. Peter helps him straighten up and shuffle over to the wall, where he rests his head and waits for the camera to finish the job.


	6. Stoic Straight Boy

_Isaac needs money, and a certain someone told him to ask us. They should have told him we’d take it out of his hide! Isaac is stripped and spanked with hand and paddle. This would-be tough guy tries to take it in silence, but his gasps, crying and shaking give the game away. REAL TEARS!_

 

The camera is focused on Peter’s face. "Are we good?" he asks. The camera pulls back, jerks a little to the left. "Yeah.” 

"Okay, come on," says Peter. A tall blond comes into frame and settles into a chair. His hair hangs in tousled curls over his forehead. He brushes them back unconsciously, tugging before letting his hand fall.

"Hi, Isaac," says Peter.

The blond gives a tentative smile. "Hey."

"Okay, so we're going to ask you a few questions-- this is the interview part, you've probably seen it before." Isaac shakes his head, then changes his mind and nods, letting his eyes drift down to his hands. "Okay, so. What are you doing here, Isaac?"

"I'm--" Isaac licks his lips. "I heard you want guys to be in your, uh, spanking videos."

"Really? Where'd you hear that?"

Isaac lifts his eyes to meet Peter's. "A friend."

"What's his name?"

"Stiles."

Peter laughs out loud. "Of course it is." There's a huffing noise from behind the camera. Peter eyes Isaac with predatory interest. "You want to be spanked?"

Isaac looks more and more uncomfortable. He hunches in on himself a little, shrugs. "Not really. I need a car."

"Do you have any past experience with spanking?"

Isaac's eyes flick to the side and back. "Not really."

"Gay, straight, or in-between?"

"Um, straight I guess," Isaac mumbles.

"Mmmm, nice," says Peter lazily. "Nothing I like better than taking a pretty straight boy over my lap for fun and games." 

Isaac looks up in alarm. “I thought there wasn’t supposed to be-- you said it was just the spanking, nothing else.”

“What’s the matter?” Peter says, wolfish smile growing on his face. “You think I’m the type of guy not to keep his word?” Isaac’s face says it all. Peter laughs. "Don't worry, Isaac. I'm not the only one here with a good right arm. Here, take a look. You can choose."

Isaac takes the 8x10 glossies handed to him. He puts the top one aside, considers the second, then the third. It doesn't take long for a decision, and he hands the third picture back to Peter.

"You sure?" asks Peter.

"Yeah," says Isaac. "I want him to spank me."

\---

The shot fades up to show Isaac standing in a corner, shirtless, his back to the camera. "Let's go," comes a deep voice. Isaac turns around and the camera follows as he comes to stand beside a young black guy built like a Mack truck.

Boyd's lost a lot of weight since last year. His new t-shirt strains at the biceps and across the chest. He's no teddy bear anymore. "Go get a chair," he orders Isaac, and Isaac obeys, walking out of frame and returning with a straight-backed white kitchen chair.

Boyd takes it and centers it, then sits down. He beckons Isaac forward and helps ease him down until Isaac's draped over Boyd's lap. Boyd rests one hand on Isaac's back, rubs the other one slowly over Isaac's denim-clad butt.

Isaac's head is down, only a mop of curls to be seen. Boyd lifts his hand, smacks it down, then continues rubbing. In another few seconds, he does it again. Then again.

Isaac's breath starts to sound, and his hands fist briefly against the floor. Boyd lets his hand fall in heavy swats interspersed with gentle stroking. Gradually, Isaac's back relaxes, until he's breathing deep and slow.

Two minutes later, Boyd stops and nudges Isaac's shoulder. "Jeans off." It takes a few seconds for Isaac to get himself together enough to stand. There's a flush on his face when he unbuckles his belt and lets his pants slide down to his knees. Boyd reaches up and bends him over again.

The smacks are louder now, closer to the skin. Isaac twitches but doesn't say anything. Boyd spanks him for a full minute without stopping, and Isaac doesn't move or make a sound. There are pink marks peeking onto his thighs. Boyd rubs them roughly, then pats Isaac on the butt. "Underwear."

Isaac stands up again, head hunched lower than before, puts his thumbs in the waistband of his briefs and pushes them down to meet his jeans. His cock is soft, and his ass is softly rounded, pink from the midpoint down to the tops of his thighs. Boyd helps him settle back down before lifting his hand again.

There's no sound in the room but Boyd's hand cracking down onto Isaac's naked ass and Isaac's steady breaths. The skin grows flushed and red, the imprint of Boyd's palm leaving white handprints that fade instantly. Isaac twitches once or twice. He mutters something. Boyd stops and leans over to catch it, but Isaac shakes his head and adjusts his hands' stance on the floor.

Even Boyd's hand wears out eventually. He looks up at the camera and makes a face as he shakes it out. "Hey," he says to Isaac. "There's a paddle down there by my feet. Pick it up and hand it back to me."

Isaac obeys without a word. The paddle is short and has rounded corners, polished cherry at least an inch thick. Boyd rubs it over Isaac's butt, letting him get used to the idea before giving him a firm slap across both cheeks.

Isaac jerks. Boyd does it again, leaving a dark red imprint that fades into the general red of Isaac's skin. Until Boyd does it again. And a third time. And a fourth. Isaac jumps each time, but he's still quiet. Boyd smacks him, hard. There's a sharp intake of breath, but nothing more.

Boyd grasps the handle and brings the paddle down hard and fast, over and over until parts of Isaac's ass go from red to bruised and he’s whimpering. When Boyd finishes, Isaac's fists are clenched in his pant leg and the boy’s whole body is tight.

Boyd brushes the paddle across Isaac's ass one more time, then gives five slow swats that make Isaac gasp and his legs tremble. On the last one, he lets the paddle rest there and strokes Isaac's back with his other hand.

Gradually, Isaac's breathing softens and his body relaxes. Boyd gives him a few more seconds before patting his shoulder and helping him back to his feet.

Isaac looks at the camera as if he'd forgotten it was there. His face is tearstained, his eyes bright and glossy. He sniffles and rubs his nose with the back of his hand. He's not aware he's naked until Boyd bumps him with a hip and tells him to pull up his pants. Isaac laughs shakily then, a smile lighting up his face.

"No," says Peter from off camera, "turn him around." Isaac nods and lets Boyd help him face the wall. The camera pushes in to a close-up of the bruises, lingering before fading out again.


	7. TBE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laura, I don't care how interesting it is, cut the first part of this. If it gets onto the site, Chris is going to kill me, and then you're fired. - P

"You're going to love it," Peter says confidently, sprawling back in his chair.

Chris taps a finger on Peter's desk. "Yeah. I've heard that from you more than twice." He’s perched on the edge, and plays idly with a heavy ruler.

"Come on. Have you ever regretted listening to me?"

Chris raises an eyebrow and stares at Peter. "You have no idea."

"Ah, this'll be fun. Cheer up, buttercup." Peter leans forward and smacks Chris in the arm. "You know you've always wanted to give one of these stupid kids something to remember. It couldn't be any more fun if I paid you."

"You are paying me, Peter,” Chris says with a longsuffering look. He holds up the ruler and pretends to threaten Peter with it.

"Well there you go," Peter says, flipping him off. "Seriously, you're going to love this kid. He's sweet as hell, and he has the ass of an angel. Feels _amazing_ under your hand."

Chris snorts, but his neck turns a dull red. "I'm pretty sure I'm going to regret letting you talk me into this." He looks up then, past the camera. "Is it really necessary to film right now?"

"Just getting the light right. We'll cut this part in editing." comes a voice at the back.

There’s a brief knock, then Scott comes in without waiting for a reply. "Sorry I'm late, traffic was a bitch and--" He looks from Chris to Peter, back to Chris with a confused head tilt. "Mr. Argent? What are you doing here?"

“Scott.” Chris sounds like he's strangling. He turns white.

Peter looks from one to the other, an incredulous smile growing on his face. "Really. Really? Oh, this is going to be fun." He looks like he’s been given a Christmas present.

Chris stands up. “I’m not doing this.”

“Oh shit,” says Scott. “Oh my God, please don’t tell my mom.”

“I won’t say a word if you don’t,” says Chris, but Peter blocks his way before he can get away.

“No!” says Peter. “Come on. This is going to be fantastic. You can’t not do this. Come on, come on,” this to Scott, who’s still standing there with his mouth open, “it won’t be any different, you won’t even be able to see him when you’re facedown.”

Scott blushes hard and stutters “Just-- I-- Oh God, this is a fucking disaster. Oh my God.”

“Forget it, Peter,” Chris says. “Let’s just let it go.”

Peter looks at him with naked appeal in his eyes. “It’ll be amazing. I swear. I’ll give you another hundred.”

“Peter--”

“Two hundred. Three.”

“It’s not the money.”

“Right, I know. It’s the experience.” Peter indicates Scott with a wave of the hand. “I don’t know what’s up between you two, but I’m pretty sure this would be a hell of an experience.”

“I’ll do it,” Scott says. They both look at him, and Scott takes a step back and bites his lip. “I’ll do it for another three hundred.”

Chris looks at Peter then back at Scott, surprised. Scott shrugs. “It _is_ the money,” he says to Chris. “For me, anyway.”

“Scott--” says Chris helplessly. He glares at Peter. “Fine. Three hundred more. Each.”

“Yes!” says Peter, rubbing his hands together. “Not a problem, but for that kind of money, I’m going to need some acting outta the two of you.”

Scott takes another step back. “Wait, wait, just-- Mr. Argent, you know _she_ dumped _me_ , right? She said it was her, not me. You know that, right? I didn’t do anything to her, I promise.”

Peter outright giggles. “Oh, this is going to be tremendous.”

 

 

# Daddy’s Home!

 

_Scott’s been misbehaving, and Dad’s had enough! He takes his young man by the scruff of the neck, turns him over his knee, and pulls down his pants for the spanking of a lifetime. Forget paddles-- all Dad needs is his hand to bring his boy to repentance. Scott squirms, begs, pleads and cries, but Dad knows exactly what this punk needs, and going easy on him is the last thing he’ll do!_

 

The scene fades up onto a teenage bedroom. Band posters line the walls, the bed is unmade, and in one corner stands a shirtless Scott, his back to the room. When Chris enters, Scott flinches away, but Chris takes hold of the back of his neck and pulls him to the bed.

“You got anything to say before I begin?” he asks. Scott shakes his head. “How about an apology?”

“I’m sorry,” says Scott.

“Yeah, I hope so,” Chris says. He sits down on the edge of the bed, pulling Scott down with him. Scott goes over Chris’s knee easily, hiding his flushed face in between his arms. As the camera zooms in, Chris pulls Scott’s sweats down. “Lift up,” he says, and Scott lifts his hips to let them slide to mid-thigh. The shot blurs for half a second, then refocuses on Chris’s hand resting on Scott’s butt.

“You’re going to be sorry when I’m done with you,” Chris says, and gives Scott a swat. Hard. Scott’s butt tenses for just a second. Chris does it again, and again Scott clenches before he remembers he’s supposed to relax and take it. He manages to take the next few without incident, but when Chris lands an extra-hard smack on Scott’s thigh, he jerks and throws a hand back to protect himself. Chris catches it and pins it to the small of Scott’s back. The next few swats leave angry red handprints behind.

Scott yelps. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!” He squirms, but Chris puts a leg over his and spanks again, hard heavy swats that make Scott’s ass bounce. “I’m sorry,” Scott says again.

“You’re sorry, what?” asks Chris. Two spanks land on each of Scott’s thighs.

Scott groans. “I’m sorry I moved my hand. Ow!”

Chris spanks for nearly a full minute straight, ignoring Scott’s grunts of pain and scrambles for balance, before he says “I think when you’re in this position, it makes sense to call me sir.”

“Ow! Okay, yes, sir, I’m sorry.” Scott squirms again, wiggling his butt since Chris has his legs trapped. Chris doesn’t respond, but he presses Scott’s wrist into his back and slaps the underside of his cheeks. “I’m sorry, sir!” Scott says again, his voice rising, “I’m really sorry, ow, fuck!”

“Really?” Chris says to the back of Scott’s head. “You’re over my knee and you think swearing at me is a good idea?” He sets his jaw and brings his hand down hard.

“Wait, I wasn’t--” Scott says desperately, then yells as Chris spanks him, hard and fast. There’s no letup until Scott is in tears. “I’m sorry,” he says in a thick voice, “I wasn’t swearing at you, sir, I promise. It just hurts.”

“It better hurt,” Chris says. “Otherwise I’m not doing my job.” He slaps Scott’s thighs a few times. “The only words I want to hear out of you are ‘yes, sir,’ ‘no, sir,’ and ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” says Scott, sniffling.

“All right, then.” Chris squeezes Scott’s wrist. “If I let your hand go, are you going to try to reach back again?”

“No, sir,” Scott says. Chris lets go, and Scott puts it on the floor and regains his balance. Chris eyes him, one eyebrow raised, before beginning to spank again.

Scott keeps his word. The shot swings around to view his face, red with strain and grimacing with every swat. Scott keeps his hands planted firmly on the floor. “I’m sorry,” he says again during a break.

“For?” Chris says.

“Just, for everything. All the stuff I did. I’m sorry.”

“Are you going to do better?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are we going to end up doing this again?”

“No, sir!” Scott says vehemently.

Chris’s mouth twitches. “Okay then. This is going to be the last of it, then you get some time in the corner to think.”

Scott’s face screws up, and he bites his lip as Chris’s hand comes down once more. The last swats are heavy and slow. Scott grunts hard with each one but keeps any more swearing under wraps. Chris gives him the last three, one right after the other, then rests his hand on Scott’s burning ass. “What do you say?”

“Thank you, sir,” Scott says, blinking back tears. The camera pulls back as he eases up from his position. Chris gives him a push towards the corner, and he goes. As he settles in, he rubs his eyes and sniffs. His butt and upper thighs are bright red, edging toward purple in a few spots. As Scott heaves a sigh, the shot fades out.


	8. Spanked Sports Star

_Isaac should know better than to piss off Boyd, the captain of the lacrosse team! Boyd isn’t going to put up with any shenanigans from his players, and he strips Isaac down to his jockstrap to prove it. Isaac proves he can take an OTK spanking without complaining, but what happens when Boyd gets Coach’s paddle?_

Isaac’s seated on a bench in front of a wall of lockers, fully fitted out in jersey, shorts, and lacrosse pads and gloves, helmet on his lap. He looks left, and stands up when Boyd comes into the frame. Boyd’s dressed the same way, minus the pads. He sets a lacrosse stick against the lockers. It falls to the floor with a clatter.

“You know why I asked you to stay behind after practice?” asks Boyd.

“No,” says Isaac.

Boyd crosses his arms. “What play were we running?”

Isaac shakes his curly head. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

“You remember what you were supposed to do?”

“Yeah. I was supposed to pass the ball.”

“Mm-hmm.” Boyd shifts his weight. He seems to grow broader. “Is that what you did?”

Isaac shakes his head again.

“Did you forget? Or were you just not listening to me?”

“I don’t know.” Isaac shrugs. “I forgot, I guess. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well, I’m gonna make sure you don’t forget again.” Boyd gestures to Isaac’s shoulders. “Take off the pads.”

Isaac hesitates. “What are you going to do?”

“Take off the damn pads.” Boyd’s voice doesn’t leave room for argument. Isaac strips off his gloves and pads and drops them to the floor. “Pick up your equipment and put it away,” says Boyd sharply. Isaac’s gaze falls to the floor, but he does what he’s told, shoving everything into one of the lockers.

Boyd nods once Isaac returns to stand before him. “Now lose the clothes. You can keep your jock on.”

Isaac doesn’t argue, just pulls his shirt off and kicks his shorts aside. He bends to retrieve them and put them away. The black straps of his jock fit tightly around his waist and thighs, stark against his pale skin, outlining his bare ass for the camera. When he turns back to Boyd, Boyd beckons him forward. “What do you think I’m gonna do?”

“I don’t know.” Isaac’s voice is small.

“I’m going to spank your ass red for you. Maybe next time you’ll pay more attention to what you’re supposed to do.” Boyd sits on the bench and reaches for Isaac’s hand. Isaac gives a tiny groan, but goes over obediently.

Boyd doesn’t give him a chance to think before he slaps Isaac’s ass. “Ow,” says Isaac, but there’s no force behind it. He grunts at the next few slaps, which start pinking up his butt instantly.

“Who’s the captain of this team?” Boyd asks in between spanks.

“You are,” says Isaac from his upside-down position.

“What does that mean?” Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap.

“It means I listen to you on the field.”

“That’s right.” The slaps become harder. “Is that what you did?”

Isaac shakes his head. Boyd gives him a smack that outlines fingerprints in red. Isaac jerks. “No!”

“That’s why we gotta do this.” Boyd goes back to regular spanking. “If you’re not gonna listen and remember, I’m gonna remind you until you do.”

“I’m sorry,” Isaac groans. He’s beginning to shift about. “I’ll remember next time.”

“Think so?”

“I promise.” Isaac groans again. His butt is brighter now, almost red. Boyd doesn’t say a word in response, but the spanks come harder and faster, and Isaac twitches and jerks minutely. He clutches a leg of the bench.

Boyd sees that. “Nuh-uh. Hands on the floor. You take ‘em off, you’re going to be sorry.”

Isaac lets go and places his hands flat on the floor. “Sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, well, now you do.” Boyd slaps Isaac’s butt so hard it echoes like a shot. Isaac’s whole body contorts. Boyd does it again, and this time Isaac cries out, twisting in an effort to both get away and keep himself still.

“I think you need more of a lesson.” Boyd gives Isaac’s ass a semi-gentle pat. “There’s a paddle in Coach’s office. I want you to get up and bend over, with your hands on the bench, and wait till I come back with it.”

There’s the barest whimper before Isaac gets up and does as directed. Boyd walks out of the shot. Isaac keeps in position, shifting his body weight back and forth, his ass pointed toward the camera. When Boyd comes back, he’s armed with a long, heavy paddle with holes drilled into it. He measures it up against Isaac’s ass, brushing the skin with it, then lifts it and swats hard. 

It drives Isaac forward, forcing a grunt of pain out of him. “Back in position,” Boyd warns, and Isaac scrambles to get himself back. He’s able to withstand the second swat, and the third, but the fourth makes him yell as his knees buckle.

“Stand up,” Boyd orders. “You keep doing that, I’m gonna start over. Is that what you want?”

“No,” Isaac gasps. He gets his hands back on the bench and his butt up in the air. “I’m sorry.”

“You keep those hands where they belong.” Boyd brings the paddle down again, and again Isaac yells, but he’s able to keep position though his knees are shaking.

“Are you going to listen to the play next time?” Thwack.

“Yeah. Yes!”

Thwack. “You going to forget what you’re supposed to be doing out there?”

“No.” Isaac’s voice is desperate. 

“Okay. I’m gonna try and believe you, but you’ll have to show me some improvement, or you’re gonna be right back here after the next game.” Boyd strikes again, one two three in a row. Isaac howls and begins to sob.

“All right.” Boyd taps him on the ass with the paddle and lays it down. “We’re done here. Get dressed.” 

Isaac gets up and walks shakily to his locker. His butt is deep red, displayed admirably as he bends over to get his shorts back on. He blows his nose in his jersey. Boyd chuckles. “Damn, that’s nasty. Come on, get over here, we’ll get you some kleenex.” Isaac limps to Boyd’s side, and Boyd helps him out of the room as the scene fades to black.


	9. Principal's Office

_Jackson’s been a bad boy! He’s sent to Principal Argent’s office for bullying another student, and Mr. Argent isn’t about to let him off lightly! A lecture, a good hand spanking and a firm paddling put Jackson back on the straight and narrow-- along with extra humiliation when Mr. Argent has him sign the paddle!_

Peter’s office is clean and bright. The battered metal desk has been replaced with heavy oak, and the wood floors have been sanded and buffed to a high shine. Light pours in from the window, no longer hidden under stained mini blinds. The mismatched chairs that have starred in so many videos have been replaced by a leather-upholstered set. The camera pans past the new acquisitions, along the runner carpet to the door. 

There’s a knock. “Come in,” calls a deep voice. The door opens and in steps Jackson, dressed in a navy blue blazer and striped tie. “Close the door,” the voice directs, and Jackson closes it behind him and comes forward.

“Jackson.” Chris Argent rests his hands on the desk. “What brings you to my office today?”

Jackson shrugs, looking irritated. “I don’t know.”

Chris gives him a thin smile. “I think you can guess.”

Jackson just shrugs again and looks away. 

“This is the second time you’ve been found bullying a student.” Jackson looks up sharply at that, but keeps his lips pressed together. “After the first time, you promised you wouldn’t let it happen again, so I gave you another chance. And this is what you’ve done with it.”

“I didn’t--” Jackson begins. Chris waits for more, but Jackson just looks away.

“You didn’t what? Didn’t throw his clothes out the window after gym? Didn’t bend him over and spank him in front of the rest of the guys until he begged for permission to go get them? What did he ever do to you, Jackson? Or do you just enjoy picking on boys smaller than you?”

Jackson frowns, and for a second it looks like he’ll say something, but he subsides and shrugs again. “Whatever.”

“Really?” Chris says. “That’s all you have to say? I have to tell you, Jackson, I have had enough of your attitude. You’ve given me nothing but trouble, and it ends here. No more bullying, no more disrespect, no more alpha-male posturing. Is that understood?”

“Sure,” mumbles Jackson.

The corner of Chris’s mouth hitches up in a wry smile. “I didn’t think it would be.” He stands up. “Drop your pants to your ankles. Bend over and put your hands on the desk.

Jackson doesn’t say a word, but he obeys. He lays his jacket over one of the chairs, unbuckles his pants, lowers them to the ground, and puts his hands on the desk so his upper body is at a 45-degree angle.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” says Chris, tapping a blond wood paddle on his hand as he walks behind Jackson. “If you choose the easy way, I’ll spank you with my hand to warm your ass up before paddling you. If you choose the hard way, we go straight into paddling. The easy way takes longer, but if I were you, I’d go for that over what’s going to feel a lot worse.”

Jackson’s shoulders are tight. He doesn’t speak.

“You get one chance,” says Chris. “If you want it the hard way, stay where you are. If you want it the easy way, you bend further down and push your ass out.”

There’s a pause. Then the line of Jackson’s shoulders relaxes. He lowers his body further toward the desk and arches his back, thrusting his ass up higher. Chris pats it with the paddle, then lays the paddle down by Jackson’s head. 

Chris slaps the meaty part of Jackson’s ass with a smack. Jackson jumps. “Hold still,” Chris orders before slapping it again. Jackson’s head is hung low between his shoulders. Chris alternates between cheeks, and the camera gradually zooms in to show them bouncing under his hand, turning redder with each swat. 

For almost two minutes, there’s no sound other than the sharp smack of hand on flesh, no movement other than Chris’s arm bringing justice down on Jackson’s upturned rear. When he stops, Jackson flinches in anticipation of the next blow, then relaxes when it doesn’t come. His breath comes hard and fast, and he flinches again when Chris pats his butt.

“That was the easy part,” says Chris. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay,” says Jackson.

“Okay?” Chris’s eyebrows rise. “Not feeling ashamed of yourself yet? Sorry for what you’ve done?”

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Jackson says. “That, yeah. I’m, uh, I’m sorry.”

“Isn’t this what you did to him?” Chris says. “Didn’t you have him bent over in the locker room, ass up in the air, spanking him till he cried? How does it feel to be in that position now?”

The camera shakes a little, then steadies. “Not good,” Jackson drags out. “I’m sorry.”

“Should I call in your buddies to watch?”

“No,” Jackson says, voice cracking. “No, I get it, I’m sorry.”

There’s a pause while Chris picks up the paddle and presses it against Jackson’s ass. Jackson’s gulp is almost audible. “Count them,” says Chris.

“How many?” asks Jackson.

“Until I stop,” says Chris, and brings the paddle down with an almighty crack. Jackson gives a smothered cry. Chris waits, and finally Jackson gets it out. “One.”

The next swat is hard across both cheeks. Jackson yells again, and his voice is thick when he chokes out “Two.”

“I hope this improves your attitude,” says Chris, over Jackson’s strangled “Three.” Jackson coughs, and just has time to breathe in before-- “Four!”

“I’m not going to tolerate any more of this,” Chris continues. “Any word that you’re acting up again, and I won’t even ask you for your side.” Jackson’s hands are fists on the desk. His body is leaning to one side, and Chris reaches down to straighten him back up. “I’ll just bring you in and bend you over--” the paddle strikes, and Jackson garbles a number that might be seven-- “and I won’t even warm you up.”

Jackson’s ass is deep red, a contrast from the tanned skin of his thighs. The paddle comes down again hard, pulling another cry from Jackson. He hops up and down on his toes to try to work the pain out. “I get it,” he gasps. “I get it, okay, I got it, I’ll behave.”

Chris waits till Jackson’s counted nine before he asks “Are you sure?”

“Yes!” Jackson’s voice is hoarse. “Yes, I promise, I swear, just please stop.”

The tenth is the last. Chris puts his hand on Jackson’s shoulder when he tries to rise and pushes him back down. “I didn’t tell you to get up. You stay here, and you think about what just happened.”

Jackson is making little whines in the back of his throat, but he nods and puts his head on the desk between his arms. He jitters from one foot to another, back and forth, red butt high in the air and captured on film.

“Up,” says Chris after a minute. Jackson straightens up slowly, catches sight of the paddle still in Chris’s hand, and gives him a horrified look. Chris grins. “No, that part’s over. Now you sign it.”

“Huh?” 

“Sign.” Chris hands him a pen. “Every student who gets paddled signs it afterwards. I can see at a glance who learns their lesson, and who needs repeat reminders. I hope this’ll be your only signature.”

Jackson signs without a fuss. Chris taps the paddle in his hand. “All right. Pull up your pants and go, and be grateful that I don’t throw your clothes out the window and make you go get them.”

There’s no answer. Jackson fastens his pants with his head bowed, grabs his blazer, and goes.


	10. Samsung Galaxy S3

The shot tilts crazily. “-- shitty thing to do!”

“Jackson, calm--”

“No, fuck you, I don’t know what Stilinski’s been telling you but that’s bullshit, you don’t bring my life into this.” It blurs, autofocuses, blurs again and focuses on the ratty carpeting of the hallway.

“I’m sure that’s not what Chris intended.”

“Yeah, right. Clothes out the window? He come up with that on his own? Cause that’s awfully _fucking_ specific, Peter.” There’s a snort close by.

A pause. “I don’t know what to tell you. I gave him the general flavor of the scene. Whatever he added was up to him. I can talk to him if you want.”

“What I want is for him to not be an asshole and bring shit up that happened years ago and that no one cares about anymore anyway!” Something clatters and thuds.

“That’s a new chair.”

“Yeah, I don’t give a shit.” There’s another clatter. “I don’t want that scene out there.”

“Well, someone’s a diva,” Peter says in his most mocking tone. “You signed the release, my friend, and you got your money. The scene belongs to me, and it’s going up.”

“The hell you think you’re doing?” A new voice. The camera jerks. 

“Uh, I’m just waiting to talk to Peter.”

“Yeah.” Everything blurs as the camera swings violently to the ceiling. “You’re coming with me, Stiles.”

“Seriously, I was just waiting--” The camera goes dark as it slips into a pocket.


	11. Spanking a Spy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The one you've all been waiting for is finally here.

_Uh-oh-- Stiles has been caught sneaking around one of our closed sets! Peter isn't interested in hearing his excuses, just in spanking his ass raw to teach him a lesson about spying! But what happens when Peter's called away on urgent business? Watch for a SPECIAL GUEST to show up and teach Stiles the rules!_

The video cuts in with Stiles naked and bent in half over a spanking horse with his ass high in the air. After a few uncomfortable seconds of waiting, Peter walks into the shot, a cruel smile on his face and a strip of leather in his hand. He slaps it once against his thigh and Stiles jumps. "So you think it's funny to spy on other boys' punishments?" asks Peter.

Stiles takes a moment to consider. "Not funny _exactly._ It's not really the word I'd use, it's more like--OW!"

Peter lowers his hand. "Do you think it's a good idea to argue with me right now?"

"No," says Stiles immediately, "no, definitely not, I'm sorry."

"Definitely not indeed." Peter gives Stiles another three swats and grins. "Looks like you're in need of a pretty serious spanking, aren't you?"

"Surprise surprise," Stiles mumbles, and squawks when Peter gives him a smack that echoes, leaving a handprint on the ass cheek closest to the camera. "Ow! Yes, yes, fine, yeah, I need a spanking."

Peter grins again and begins to spank hard. Each blow draws a grunt from Stiles, whose face is turning redder the longer he's head-downward. Peter stops now and then to shake out his hand, and before too long Stiles' toes come off the floor and his legs kick out stiff behind him. "Goddamn, Peter, ow ow ow! That's enough, I get it!"

"I'm not sure you do," says Peter without letting up. "You keep--" he raises his voice to be heard over Stiles' yelps-- "you keep coming in here and causing trouble. No matter how often we spank you, you don't seem to learn."

"I do too!" Stiles says. "I totally do, ow, I haven't, ow God ow, I haven't done the other stuff you've punished me for again. God, Peter, please!" One foot kicks back to the floor. 

"I just got this new tawse," Peter says. "I think I'll break it in on your ass. What do you say?"

"That's the worst idea ever," Stiles groans. 

"It's got a split tail," Peter goes on as if he hasn't heard. "Supposed to be the most painful strap in existence."

"Nooooo," Stiles says, kicking the floor again. He's clinging to the legs of the horse like his life depends on it. "Peter, come on, I wasn't that bad. I didn't murder puppies or anything."

Peter shrugs. "Murdering puppies is outside my bailiwick. Spying on my boys, on the other hand..." He lifts the tawse high just as there's a loud knock on the door. 

"Hey," says the girl who enters, a pretty girl with long dark hair. "Peter, you have a call."

Peter closes his eyes and breathes out through his nose. "Cora, you know not to bother me when I'm at work."

Cora seems to notice Stiles' bright red ass for the first time. She raises her eyebrows in amusement. "Oh, uh, yeah," she says, bringing her attention back to Peter, "it's that production company you were waiting on. They said they're ready to negotiate--"

"And it has to be now, right?" Peter’s nostrils pinch. "Fine. Tell them I'll be there in a second." Cora disappears. Peter looks around, then straight into the camera. "Take over for me. You can finish him up."

There's a pause. "Okay," comes a voice behind the camera. Peter disappears after Cora, closing the door behind him, and the camera bobbles a little, then settles. A dark-haired man comes out from behind it, dressed in butt-hugging jeans and a tank top that clings to his chest. "Hell. He took the tawse away." He takes a step toward the door.

"Don't you dare!" yelps Stiles. "Derek, no. Seriously, no."

Derek looks down at Stiles. A tiny smiles plays around his mouth. "I don't think you're in a position to tell me what to do."

Stiles switches tack immediately. "Okay, I'm not telling, I’m asking, okay? Please don't."

"You scared?"

"No."

“You sure about that?”

“Just--” Stiles squirms. “Just finish it up, okay?”

Derek looks around the room. "I don't see anything else to hit you with."

"You have hands," says Stiles acidly.

"Mmm..." Derek tilts his head. "I think we're past hands now. Peter was all ready to start strapping you." 

“This is bullshit,” says Stiles. He squirms again. 

Derek slaps his butt. "I know what you did," he says, "I'm the one that caught you, remember? I think you need more than a hand spanking to teach you your lesson."

Stiles struggles upright. "I do _not_." 

Derek glares at him. Stiles looks like he realizes he's made a terrible error in judgment, and bends back over the horse. "Pleeeease," comes floating up from the floor.

"Tell you what," Derek says, "if you take my belt twenty times, and thank me after each one, I won't go get the tawse. But if you miss one, or if you forget to thank me, I'll go find Peter, and you'll be getting another twenty."

Stiles squeaks. Derek waits. "Okay," says Stiles after a second. "But, like, give me time after each one, okay? It doesn't count as forgetting if I'm trying to remember how breathing works."

Derek unbuckles his belt. It swooshes through the loops with a hiss, and his jeans slip down a touch, just below the tops of his hipbones. Stiles’ flinch is obvious. Derek gives a pointy, evil smile and brushes the belt across Stiles’ ass. Stiles’s flinch turns into a jerk that almost knocks the horse over.

The belt cuts through the air. Stiles lets out a completely unmanly shriek. “You son of a-- ow, fuck, one, thank you sir.”

Derek considers Stiles’ butt for a second. “Don’t call me sir. Use my name.”

“Oh I’ll use your name,” grumbles Stiles, “I’ll use your-- aaaaagh two! Thank you, Derek!”

There’s Derek’s pointy smile again. The strap cuts across the junction between ass and thigh. “MotherFUCKER, three, thank you Derek!”

“You’re really fucking loud,” Derek says after the eighth one. “No one needs to sneak in here to know what’s going on with you.”

“Augh,” is Stiles’ response. He’s twisting on the horse, almost bouncing up and down to try and absorb the pain. 

“In fact,” says Derek, strapping Stiles again and letting him roll about, “this would be an excellent illustration for guys who’re thinking about signing up. Let them listen to you scream and see if they think it’s really worth it.”

“Nine, thank you Derek you son of a bitch.”

“It’s extra funny because this is just a belt. I mean, Isaac takes this and barely makes a sound--” Crack-- “Ten, thank you Derek--” “and that’s with Boyd. You’ve seen his arms.”

“I hate you,” Stiles pants. The belt catches him on one cheek. “Goddamn it, eleven, fucking eleven thank you Derek!”

“How does it feel, getting spanked on camera for something you did?” Derek rests a hand on the spot he just hit. Stiles grunts, and Derek presses harder.

“Oh, it’s _awesome_ ,” says Stiles. “Thank you sir, may I have another?” When the belt lands again, he shouts, “Okay, that was a joke, I didn’t mean it, thank you Derek!”

“You want to take a guess at that number?” Derek says. “Remember, if you miss one Peter starts over with the tawse.”

“Twelve.” It’s hard to tell if Stiles is laughing or crying. 

“Eight more to go,” Derek says.

“I hate you,” says Stiles.

Stiles takes the next five with the same amount of screaming, swearing, and threats of mayhem against Derek. Derek almost laughs at a couple of them, but manages to smother it. Stiles bounces on his toes, and once tries to kick Derek, who steps out of the way and straps Stiles so hard in retribution that Stiles really does have to take a minute to catch his breath. Eighteen, nineteen, and the twentieth draws a yell out of Stiles that could get the cops to investigate. “I hate you _so_ much,” he howls, “thank you, Derek!”

“And there you go,” says Derek, “all done.” He pats Stiles’ ass and smirks at the curse he gets back. Stiles is limp over the horse, breathing hard, and he groans as Derek pulls him upright. His face is bright red from being upside-down. He rubs his nose, sniffs, and scowls at Derek’s grin. “You are such an asshole.”

“Yeah, well.” Derek rumples Stiles’ hair. “Takes one to know one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About time, huh? :)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, yes, this is mostly an excuse for spanking porn, but there's a tiny bit of plot coming down the pike. Tags will be updated each time something new is added. There are a lot more characters and pairings to come, and I'll always consider suggestions!


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